


A Game Made For Two

by Anonymous



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Child Death, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post Pacifist Ending, Post good ending, Russian Roulette, Self-Harm, Suicidal Ideation, neither boio gettin out unscathed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-14 05:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15381285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “He'd be ten today,” Hank said, voice hoarse and watered with emotion. He was quiet again before he truly looked at Connor, eyes red rimmed and puffy, “Fuck you doing here, Connor?”





	1. The Game

48hrs ago they'd gotten a call about a body abandoned in an empty lot. They had arrived on the scene to find a child murdered, blunt force trauma to the back of the head exposing their core processor to erosion and decay. There had been other signs of past trauma, but Connor had been reluctant to properly analyze the evidence, and Hank had been loathe to ask him to go further. A necessary evil, they came to realize, as Connor identified their victim and located the android's adoptive caretakers. 

At first, they'd played the part of grieving parents, holding onto each other as they wept at the news. Though as the day had worn on something had began to feel off. Their stories became skewed, minor but important details changing or disappearing entirely each time they recounted their tale. A growing sense of dread between the two detectives became justified when the mother had broken down into a confession and the father had fled. 

Both were in custody for first-degree murder now, though neither of them could explain why they had done it. They had loved their child, treated them as though they were blood. Then, after the revolution, they came to realize that they had made a lifelong commitment, one they weren't sure they were entirely ready for.

 _Like a puppy on Christmas_ , Hank had mumbled, disgust evident in his tone. 

They had officially closed the case that afternoon, and Connor had hoped with the parents in custody, Hank would find some peace of his own. The man had been on edge ever since they got the call, his blood pressure elevated and his mood subdued. Connor had tried approaching the subject when he first noticed, but had been brushed off, politely ordered to focus on the case. 

He wasn't so naive as to believe Hank was really okay, so when Hank had decided to head home early, Connor had been glad. He thought the man could do with a good meal and a good rest. He hadn't thought to check the date, however, and when he did, he knew he'd fucked up. 

Which was why he stood in the dark outside their home, key in the door, hand pressed against the frame. Connor had made about a dozen calls between here and the station, and Hank had answered exactly none of them. They had made so much progress over the last year together, and Connor was so scared Hank had decided to throw that all away. No, no, scratch that – Connor was terrified. 

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Connor counted to three, then pushed into the house. 

Instantly, both relief and alarm washed over Connor at the sight of Hank hunched over the kitchen table, head in hands as he stared down at the wooden surface. Connor focused in and recognized the photo frame, but he also didn't miss the revolver at the table's center nor the half-bottle of whiskey by Hank's elbow. 

Closing the door behind him, Connor gave a worried Sumo a pat on the head, then tossed his coat over the couch while never letting his gaze wander from the man in the kitchen. Hank didn't react to Connor's approach, not initially, only glancing up when the android came to a stop opposite of where he sat. 

“Thought it was supposed to get better,” Hank mumbled after a moment, then reached for the liquor, “Thought time might close the hole a little.” 

Connor didn't know what to say, so he stayed quiet, just watched as Hank downed another finger's worth of whiskey. Then Hank slammed the bottle back into place, running a hand down his face, never turning away from Cole's photo.

“He'd be ten today,” Hank said, voice hoarse and watered with emotion. He was quiet again before he truly looked at Connor, eyes red rimmed and puffy, “Fuck you doing here, Connor?” 

“I live here,” Connor said, resting his hands on the back of an empty kitchen chair. 

“You're home early.” 

“I was worried,” Connor admitted, voice soft, “I know today-” 

“The _fuck_ do you know, you plastic prick,” Hank growled with an anger Connor hadn't heard in a very long time. He didn't like it, it wasn't right. 

“Hank-” 

“Oh, fuck off already,” Hank took another swig of his drink, his face set in a scowl, “I'm tired of you being in my shit all the time – The hell do you care anyway?” 

“I'm your friend.” 

“Then leave me alone!” 

“You know I can't do that,” Connor said, he didn't know what he could do, but he couldn't do that, wouldn't do that, “You're always telling me to talk to you, but I need you to do the same.” 

“And what do you wanna hear, Connor?” Hank looked away, grip idling on the neck of the whiskey bottle, “That it hurts just waking up in the morning, knowing no matter how hard I try, how much I change – it's still me in that fucking mirror. That every second I spend away from you reminds me I'm not the only asshole left walking, and it's the same shit show out there that it's ever been. That there's nothing good left to find. 

“You wanna hear how, for one god awful moment,” Hank stumbled over his words, then drew in an unsteady breath, “I thought I was fucking _glad_ Cole wasn't here, because at least the world couldn't fuck him over anymore.” 

Silence fell heavy between them, the outburst coming to a choked end with Hank dragging the bottle back to his lips. Connor watched his friend tilt his head back, his face once more hardening from misery to anger. Hank set the whiskey down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He'd given enough time for his words to settle, then he looked up at Connor from beneath a curtain of gray.

“The fuck you doing here, Connor.”

And Connor didn't realize he'd been shaking until he stopped. 

Which was surprising, considering he was also suddenly very cold. Almost numb, as if every part of him had been hollowed out. Though his mind cleared in that same moment, focusing, and Connor's grip tightened on the back of the chair before he pulled it out and sat down. He could feel his jaw square with determination, but his face was unnaturally smooth when he again met Hank's tormented gaze. 

“I'm playing your game, Lieutenant,” Connor said in that sterile, mechanical way he still knew how to. 

Something must have registered past the haze of inebriation, because Hank's face scrunched in confusion when he asked, “What game?”

Connor chose not to answer right away. Instead he reached out and pulled the near forgotten revolver to his side of the table. Hank was either too confused or too drunk to try and stop him, and Connor was fine with that. 

“Games aren't fun by yourself,” Connor explained as though Hank were a child misbehaving on the playground, “But if you insist on playing, I am amendable to joining you.” 

Connor popped the revolver's chamber and did a quick check to ensure that yes, there was a single bullet loaded. Far too casual for his own liking, Connor gave the chamber a good spin before he flicked it back into place. Once more keeping his eyes steady on Hank, Connor brought the cool barrel of the magnum up under his jaw and pressed it into the synthetic skin there. 

At that point Hank was looking at him with a mixture of emotions, and Connor could tell the man was having a good amount of trouble connecting the dots. 

“Connor, what are you-” 

“Only, you haven't been playing fair, Lieutenant,” Connor interrupted, “I have a lot of catching up to do.” 

And Connor saw it. 

Saw the moment Hank flinched back into reality with the empty click of the gun. 

Blue eyes widened, and Hank's breath came short and quick, his face falling from its earlier confusion into one of abject horror. His gaze flicked down to the metal pressed under Connor's chin, then back to the android's eyes, a thousand questions forming in the slight furrow of his brow. 

“Is that a win or a loss?” Connor asked, unfazed. Hank didn't say anything, however, just stared like he'd been slapped, so Connor pulled the trigger again. 

“Holy _shit_ ,” Hank breathed, and raised a hand out towards him, “What the hell are you doing?” 

“That's the third time you've asked me that, Lieutenant,” Connor helpfully reminded, “I think your drinking might be affecting your mental cognizance.” 

Hank gasped with the next pull of the trigger, then slammed his palms on the table, “Jesus – Fuck! Connor, stop it! Give me the gun, son-” 

“Why?” 

Another click. 

“Goddammit – You're gonna get yourself killed!” 

Only two chambers left, “There's a 50% chance this next one does just that. I am still unsure what constitutes a win or a loss here, Lieutenant.” 

And Connor depressed his finger the same moment Hank lunged forward, the sudden movement bumping the table into the android's elbow just as the shot went off. Glass shattered as the bottle crashed and the light above went out with a spark, plunging the kitchen into the dark. 

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was really just an excuse to write Connor playing Russian Roulette - Didn't want to just tack on an ending, tho, so part two will hopefully be up soon! First fic for this fandom, so ya know, fun stuff!


	2. The Prize

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <33333 Did not expect such a big and beautiful response! So Thank You, so much, even if you just swung by! 
> 
> Not 100% sure on this, like I said, really just wanted to write that one scene - but hopefully it's a satisfactory conclusion! Thanks for reading, and enjoy!

_Oh shit – oh shit – oh fuck, the fuck did you do?_

Something stupid. 

Something unbelievably stupid, though which of them that thought was directed towards was difficult to discern while Connor's world was quite painfully collapsed into the black. A sensation that was neither unpleasant nor disconcerting until a high pitched whine began to build and build in his left ear, growing in volume to an almost unbearable level before it extinguished itself with a pop. 

The relief that flooded Connor in the following silence was short lived as his sensors rebooted and then shoved all awareness behind a blaring red wall of errors. 

Connor winced against the intrusion, his face feeling stiff and as uncooperative as the rest of him. At least he had enough of his bearings to register the cool linoleum of the kitchen beneath his upper body, and the hard wood of the chair his legs were still propped up on. 

Somewhere, out of visual range, Connor thought he heard Hank on the floor beside him. The man's breathing was heavy and quick, and Connor worried that he was close to hyperventilating.

Then he remembered the shot, the light, and Connor found he needed to get up, to reach out, to make sure Hank wasn't hurt - 

_Stay down_ , Connor's system warned, and for once he listened, sagging back onto the linoleum while his diagnostics began to catalog the damage. 

Which was probably for the best as Hank's panic came to a headway and the man stumbled to his feet and then retched in the direction of a corner. Connor wanted to call out to him, to ask if he was okay, but his jaw refused to move on its hinge and Hank was tripping his way into the living room the next moment, a very agitated Sumo calming somewhat at his owner's reappearance. 

_Good boy, Sumo_ , Connor thought, _Stay with Hank, I'll be there in a minute._

Connor closed his eyes, pulling the scrolling list of affected components from his peripheral and skimming through. With most of the damage contained to the right side of his jaw and cheek, Connor began to close the wall of warnings, reducing them to a blinking thumbnail to be dealt with later. Thankfully, nothing major had been hit, and while Connor was sure he was going to be a ghastly sight until his jaw could be repaired and/or replaced, he was nowhere near an imminent shutdown. 

Which was fortunate, because he was pretty certain Hank was likely to strangle him.

Of all the stupid ways to prove a point, shooting himself through the face was going to be at the top of that list for a very long time. He could only hope whatever had come over him had passed, and would never resurface. 

Able to finally think past the pain and red, Connor managed to pull himself into an upright position, dragging his legs off the seat of the chair. He sat there for a moment, regaining some equilibrium. 

The only light left in the kitchen was what was streaming from the lamp in the living room, and the occasional blue spark from Connor's wound. A warm trickle still oozed its way down Connor's neck, and he didn't need to touch the stick that had spread into his hair to know he had made a big blue mess. While not ideal, his thirium levels were acceptable, and Connor loosened his right sleeve, bunching the cuff in his hand before he brought it up to his face. 

He needed to check on Hank, make sure they were okay, and he doubted seeing the jagged inside of Connor's broken mouth was going to allay any hard feelings. 

Deeming himself stable enough to at least get to his feet, Connor managed to do so without too much trouble. He swayed for a moment, but his legs stayed under him, and he redirected himself towards the living room. 

Thankfully, Hank hadn't gotten too far either. He was seated on the floor in front of the couch, Sumo standing across his lap, gray head bowed into the Saint Bernard's fur, fingers curled in the scruff. Save for the occasional shudder of Hank's shoulders, the man was otherwise completely still.

“Hank,” Connor called, though his voice was barely above a distorted whisper. He released his grip on the entryway, then took another step into the other room. When he tried again, his voice was a little stronger, “Hank?”

Hank's fingers curled deeper into Sumo's fur, and the dog whined as he leaned his weight further against Hank's chest, trying to offer what comfort he could. Sumo's large doleful eyes turned towards Connor when the android took another step.

“Hank, are you okay?” 

“Oh, fuck you-” Hank's words died in his throat when he finally looked up, “Jesus Christ, Connor.” 

Hank pushed Sumo off his lap and quickly rose from his spot on the floor, using the couch for leverage. Fresh tears had stained Hank's flushed cheeks, and Connor felt something twist in his chest before Hank was at his side, almost startling Connor with how quickly he'd gotten there.

“I'm alright,” Connor said. 

“You're not alright, you fucking _shot yourself_ ,” Hank growled, and then raised a hand towards where Connor had his pressed firmly against the wound, white sleeve soaked blue. Instead of tugging Connor loose to get a look, however, Hank seemed to think better of it and took hold of Connor's elbow.

“I'm sorry,” Connor mumbled and allowed himself to be led towards the bathroom, “I miscalculated.” 

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock,” Hank said, though there wasn't a lick of heat in his voice. 

Hank flipped the light on, then urged Connor to sit on the edge of the tub. Sumo had followed them, but wisely laid down just outside the door, head on paws, and whining softly. Connor tried to give the big lug a reassuring smile, though his stiff face made the gesture an effort. 

“The fuck were you thinking,” Hank mumbled, voice uncharacteristically soft. He had pulled the first aid kit from under the sink, and held a wet cloth in one hand, a bag of thirium placed to the side by Connor's feet. Connor wasn't sure if he was supposed to answer Hank, then was robbed of the chance when Hank glanced towards Connor's temple before he once again reached for him. 

“How bad is it?” Hank asked, rough fingers wrapping around Connor's wrist. 

“Nothing serious,” Connor said, “I assure you.” 

“Uh huh, I've heard that before,” Hank gently tugged Connor's arm, “C'mon, son, let me see.” 

“You might wish you hadn't.” 

“Wish that about a lot of things, but sometimes you just need to do what needs done. Now, c'mon,” Hank tapped Connor's forearm, “Gotta get you cleaned up.” 

Connor frowned, considering, then slowly lowered his hand, the cloth of his shirt reluctantly peeling loose. 

“Holy shit, Con,” Hank hissed, “You know how lucky you are I'm not mopping your fucking brains off the floor right now?” 

“I'm sorry,” Connor ducked his head.

“Yeah, well, you should be. Never been that fucking scared in my life,” Hank said, his tone undermining any try at anger, “Don't ever do that shit again, you hear me?” 

“Okay,” Connor agreed, and Hank sighed. 

“Fucking A, okay,” Hank placed a steadying touch on Connor's left shoulder, then carefully pressed the warmth cloth against the torn edges of Connor's skin. The wound oozed a fresh wave of thirium, which was quickly wiped away. 

The heat would encourage the self repair programs to speed their progress a bit. The pain was already easing, and Connor would have taken comfort in the small reprieve if it hadn't given him room to think.

And there was only one thing to think about. 

“I know I'm not enough,” Connor whispered.

“Didn't catch that, kid,” Hank grunted, continuing his ministration, “What'd you say?” 

“I'll never be enough,” Connor said, a little louder, and Hank stilled, pulling his hand back. Connor kept his eyes on the bathroom floor, fingers caught in a white knuckle curl over the tub's edge.

“The hell you talking about? Connor, look at me.” 

Connor did, and at the sight of him, Hank's face collapsed. 

Connor's breath hitched against the weight of feeling bubbling into his chest. All the fear, and anger, and everything that had been gathering since the moment he'd stepped through the front door that night was finally registering in his system, and he supposed he'd been in shock before, but this was so much worse. So, so much worse. 

“I know, I'm not enough, Hank,” Connor confessed, “I'm sorry.” 

“Connor…” 

Hank went quiet when Connor reached for him, the android's hands trembling just below his ribs before they twisted into the fabric of his shirt. Connor kept his head bowed, bent forward into the space between them, and while Connor had certainly cried before, he had never felt so wrong about it. 

“I'm sorry, Hank,” he rasped out, “I know you need more, I'll try harder, I'll be better, I-I'll find a way… I don't want to lose you. I love you.” 

“Shut up,” Hank said, voice low with warning, his hands suddenly heavy on Connor's shoulders, and Connor realized he's shaking again, “You shut the fuck up, and you listen to me.” 

Hank cupped the left side of Connor's face, urging him to look up before he continued, “You're more than an old sack of shit like me deserves, and you shouldn't ever have to doubt that.” 

Then Connor was suddenly pulled against Hank's chest, one of the man's hands cradling the back of his head, the other firmly pressed around the base of his neck. Connor loosened his hold on Hank's shirt and wrapped his arms around him in a proper embrace, able to hear the beating of a heart under the gravel of Hank's voice.

He closed his eyes, the sound a reassuring one. 

“God, Connor,” Hank brushed his fingers through Connor's hair, mindful of his right side, “Can't keep doing this, can I? Step in enough shit as it is, don't need to be dragging it home with us, huh?” 

Hank took in a steadying breath, then slowly let it out, and Connor just listened, “Fuck, if there was ever a sign something's gotta change, I imagine tonight was it. I don't know what we're gonna do, Con, but, if you're up for it, we can do it together.” 

“Okay,” Connor said, “I'd like that.”

“Good. And hey,” Hank rested his hand atop Connor's head, “I love you too, son.” 

END


End file.
